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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26671948">Confirmation Bias</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella'>OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Developing Relationship, Divorced Greg Lestrade, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Mycroft Holmes, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26671948</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually Mycroft glanced briefly up at Greg when he entered before continuing whatever he was doing. Sometimes it took a few seconds, or a few minutes, but when he was done, Mycroft would join Greg and they would walk to the private dining room together. They would share a meal, information about Sherlock, and sometimes a Scotch before Greg went home and Mycroft returned to work.</p><p>Nothing about today had been usual.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>281</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Confirmation Bias</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Usually Mycroft glanced briefly up at Greg when he entered before continuing whatever he was doing. Sometimes it took a few seconds, or a few minutes, but when he was done, Mycroft would join Greg and they would walk to the private dining room together. They would share a meal, information about Sherlock, and sometimes a Scotch before Greg went home and Mycroft returned to work.</p><p>Nothing about today had been usual.</p><p>Oh, he’d woken to his alarm, managed a semi-decent breakfast and made it into the office on time, but that felt like a lifetime ago. His pigeonhole was stuffed with papers as usual, and it was while he was digging through the layers like some kind of administrative archaeologist the delivery person approached him.</p><p>“You DI Lestrade?” they’d asked, frowning at a name on a large envelope.</p><p>“Yep,” Greg replied, distracted by a piece of card wedged into the back of his pigeonhole.</p><p>“Greg Lestrade,” they asked again.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s right,” Greg replied, finally pulling the recalcitrant card free and turning to look. “Something for me?”</p><p>“Could say that,” they said, handing clipboard to Greg. “Sign here.”</p><p>He signed automatically, other hand still juggling the pile he’d excavating and hoping not to drop anything. “Cheers,” he said when the envelope was placed into his hands.</p><p>“Sorry mate,” they said, tucking the clipboard under their arm. “You’ve been served.”</p><p>Greg stared after them, his heart beating fast. Fuck. Was he being sued? Did that kid from last week really have a mate whose Dad was a QC? Hardly seemed likely at the time, and Greg was well within his rights to detain him (he wasn’t even a kid anymore, not legally, despite the barest hint of whiskers he was cultivating).</p><p>Moderately good mood gone, Greg strode to his office, allowing the rest of his mail to fall haphazardly onto his desk. He tugged open the envelope, not caring that it ripped at the end. There was quite a sheaf of papers inside, and before he could read the words half a dozen brightly coloured little flaps showed him he was expected to sign some of the pages.</p><p>When the words did make themselves known, cold fingers raked through his chest, leaving a heavy weight in his stomach, forcing him to sit as he blinked.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Why hadn’t he considered this? Of all the things this might have been, and it hadn’t even crossed his mind.</p><p>
  <em>She’s finally filed for divorce.</em>
</p><p>It wasn’t that he had been anticipating it; waiting for the other shoe to drop, more like it. Paula had left and returned half a dozen times in the last two years, often for a month or more, and Greg assumed the same this time. There was always something he did, always some reason she needed space, and every time she cleared out her personal stuff but left everything else. He wondered why she bothered unpacking, really.</p><p>This time she’d upped the ante. Grimly, Greg closed his office door, pulling the cord to close the venetian blinds. Everyone would know he was in but not to be disturbed. Sally would know how to keep everything going. Starting at the start, Greg read the paperwork carefully, making notes in his scrabbly handwriting so he’d know what she was actually doing. From what he could see, she was claiming abandonment and alienation of affection and asking for half of everything. Jesus, where had she even found a lawyer wiling to write this up? She’d hardly worked the last three years, claiming she needed to be home on the off chance he ever was, and Greg had chosen to interpret that as ‘I want to be here for you’ rather than ‘I can’t be bothered’.</p><p>And now she wanted half. Clearly expected him to acquiesce, too; if he wanted, he could sign where all the little pink sticky notes indicated and courier the papers back and it would all be over. A small part of him wondered if he should, and sitting there with his pen in hand, Greg almost did. He knew how long and drawn out a divorce hearing could be, and the toll it could take. He was hardly the first copper to get divorced, and the reasons weren’t even all that original. She’d known what his work was like when they got together, but clearly she’d either grown bored or decided it wasn’t worth it. Or found someone else, Greg’s mind offered.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck this.</em>
</p><p>As savagely as possible without damaging the documents, which wasn’t all that savage really, he tore the sticky notes off the pages. He’d fight this. Abandonment? She’d left <em>him</em>, every single damn time. And he just waited like a huge oaf, as though she was worth waiting for, as though he should be grateful she even came back.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck. This.</em>
</p><p>Stuffing the papers back into the envelope, Greg threw it onto his coat over his chair. The anger disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and Greg didn’t allow the space to fill with anything. He knew what would happen if he gave into what came next, and this was neither the time nor the place. He needed to work, to get through this day, then he could crawl into bed and see what the monsters in his head suggested about his future prospects and potential for being happy again.</p><p>“Sally,” he called, barely opening his door.</p><p>She was right there, of course at her desk, and he was immensely grateful for her keen observational skills as she raised one eyebrow. Whatever she thought happened, it probably wasn’t this, but she could tell it was something, and she knew how to deal with him on a grumpy day.</p><p>“Yes, boss?” she asked.</p><p>“Keep things going today, will you? I’m going to try and get some of this paperwork under control. Call me if you hear from Forensics on the El Samaar thing, or if Underwood is ready to talk. Otherwise,” he rolled one hand over, trusting her to interpret.</p><p>“Yep,” she said. “But I am going to bring you lunch.” She raised the other eyebrow to match, challenging him.</p><p>“Thanks,” he said quietly, knowing she was looking out for him.</p><p>The rest of the day passed in a blur of paperwork. Greg was exhausted; pushing down his emotional state with one proverbial hand for eight hours cost him more than he would care to admit. Sally brought lunch at some point, and when she sat opposite him with her own, he knew she wasn’t planning on leaving until she’d seen him eat. He didn’t talk, but neither did she; as soon as he’d managed the sandwich and juice she collected his rubbish and left. Greg allowed himself a second of gratitude before shoving his emotions away and focussing on work again.</p><p>As he left, Greg stopped, blinking. Mycroft’s car was a surprise only in that they hadn’t spoken beforehand, though Greg’s brain was now foggy. Had they spoken? As the car rolled through the streets, he tried to remember if this pick up had been planned or not. It was possible Mycroft even knew he’d been served today and was checking up on him. Jesus, how pathetic that would be. And speaking of pushing down emotion, Mycroft was exactly the person Greg didn’t need to see. He was married, dammit, and any interest he might have had (or still had) was moot. It didn’t matter anyway, not with Mycroft keeping a careful distance at every turn. Which was entirely appropriate, of course, and Greg respected and appreciated it.</p><p>And now he stood in Mycroft’s office, the click of the door behind him enough to crack the last of the strength he was using to hold himself together. Like a dam, emotions rose fast and hard. In the complete silence, before Mycroft looked up, Greg gasped a wet, ragged breath.</p><p>Mycroft froze, his pen hovering over whatever he was about to sign.</p><p>Greg blinked, tears welling and spilling in a single action.</p><p>The glance up would have been a double take in any other situation; Greg could see Mycroft’s eyes rake over him, fingers reaching for the cap of his pen before he’d even made a full assessment. Those eyes remained on him, pulling in information, but Greg didn’t move. A combination of exhaustion and mortification were holding him in place, and he didn’t know what might happen if he tried to move on his own.</p><p>Mycroft reached him, footsteps silent on the thick carpet.</p><p>“Something has happened,” he said.</p><p>Greg nodded, accepting the handkerchief Mycroft pulled from his breast pocket.</p><p>Mycroft opened his mouth again, but to Greg’s astonishment he didn’t speak. Instead he extended one hand, cupping the back of Greg’s elbow, guiding him to the sofa.</p><p>It was the first time Greg could remember them touching. Even when passing drinks, Mycroft would place Greg’s glass on the sideboard, allowing him to pick it up without the possibility they would brush fingers in the transference of it. He’d always thought Mycroft was either extremely courteous or a bit worried about germs. Either way, he wasn’t going to push it, not when he enjoyed Mycroft’s company so much. Not when he was the only person Greg really relaxed with anymore.</p><p>As soon as they were seated, Mycroft withdrew his hand. His eyes remained on Greg, and when Greg drew a deep breath and met that familiar grey, he saw more concern that he’d imagined.</p><p>“What can I do?” Mycroft asked, and the question was so simple and quiet it set Greg off.</p><p>“Nothing,” he managed, before the dam split entirely, the sobs shaking his whole body. Greg knew hiding one’s face while crying was a normal reaction but it felt melodramatic; it was just the two of them here, and he trusted Mycroft implicitly, yet this was too raw. Tears and mucous flowed, and Greg elected to blow his nose, leaving the tears for now. The first little while Greg was too locked up in his own head to even be aware of Mycroft’s presence or not; he thought he heard a voice, but it could have been his own blood pumping in his head.</p><p>When the sobs subsided a bit, Greg realised Mycroft was still sitting beside him. He didn’t raise his face quite yet; what a mess he must look. His face would be all blotchy, eyes red and swollen. Jesus. As if he needed another reason to be self-conscious around Mycroft, he’d just arrived and burst into tears like some damsel in distress. Greg lowered his hands but blinked, focussing on his knees. It was the compromise between remaining on Mycroft’s couch with his hands over his face forever and standing up and walking out with whatever shreds of his dignity happened to stick to his shoes.</p><p>“I got served today,” Greg said quietly.</p><p>“Divorce papers,” Mycroft breathed.</p><p>Greg nodded, some heavy combination of emotion rising again and bringing fresh tears with it.</p><p>“I did just ask Anthea to check on the health of your family and mine,” Mycroft replied. “She told me of your mail today.” He paused and Greg wondered if he would offer some kind of carefully worded condolence. That was the kind of thing he expected from Mycroft; words to acknowledge the emotional cost of something without actually engaging in a conversation about it.</p><p>“I am sorry,” Mycroft said, and the genuine regret behind the statement made Greg look up. Before his eyes reached Mycroft’s face they were waylaid by the hand reaching out to settle gently on his knee. He had no idea if Mycroft knew how it could be interpreted, should someone come in and see them sitting so close on his sofa, and touching at that. Greg blinked but continued to look up, searching for Mycroft’s eyes. They were a deeper grey than usual, though that could have been the light.</p><p>“Did you know?” Greg asked. He had no idea where that idea came from, but now that it was out he was desperate to know.</p><p>
  <em>Please don’t tell me you knew about this.</em>
</p><p>The eyes widening and slight recoil were natural reactions to shock. Greg was never more grateful for his training and experience than right in this moment. He could tell before Mycroft opened his mouth that the idea had not even occurred to him before now.</p><p>“I did not,” Mycroft replied. He frowned, and when he looked down seemed to realise his hand was still on Greg’s knee. He didn’t move it, but Greg felt his fingers tighten slightly before he spoke again. “Should I have become aware of it I would have endeavoured to tell you.”</p><p>“Endeavoured?” Greg asked. It was an odd choice of words, even for Mycroft. Surely you either told someone or you didn’t, right?</p><p>“Personal conversations are not something with which I have experience or confidence,” Mycroft said. He looked up again. “Finding the right balance can be difficult.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Greg replied. He didn’t really know what Mycroft meant, but his brain was not really in a good place to try and figure it out. Instead he let the silence fall, his eyes drifting to trace the shape of Mycroft’s fingers against his work pants. Thank god he hadn’t dripped mayonnaise today.</p><p>“If knowing in advance might have saved your pain, I would have found the words,” Mycroft said suddenly.</p><p>“What?” Greg said. His eyes flicked up, but Mycroft’s gaze was firmly averted and Greg wondered how intimate it was for two people to be avoid each other’s eyes but focussing on the same thing. He watched Mycroft frown again, the one that meant he was thinking.</p><p>“I am not a naturally demonstrative person,” Mycroft said.</p><p>Greg’s mouth dropped open. A more obvious statement had never been spoken, of course, but to hear it from Mycroft himself was completely unexpected.</p><p>“I value our friendship deeply,” Mycroft said quietly. “And rest assured I will do everything in my power to ease this upheaval for you.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Greg said hoarsely. Of all the reactions he could picture from anyone he knew, this was the furthest removed. Despite that, it was also the most sincere. Mycroft probably knew more about Paula and her in-again, out-again attitude to their marriage than anyone. It hadn’t seemed worth it to continually announce her presence or absence to anyone at work, or even his brother, but he knew Mycroft could tell what was happening without asking. Greg found himself reaching out to cover Mycroft’s hand with his own, hoping the gesture would be understood.</p><p>
  <em>I appreciate you, too.</em>
</p><p>“Should she be making…untrue claims of any kind,” Mycroft said carefully, his fingers curling into Greg’s knee, “I am able to offer legal support, if you wish.”</p><p>Greg nodded. He hadn’t really thought this whole thing through quite yet, but if he did intend to fight what she’d said, he would definitely need a lawyer, and Mycroft would probably know a bloody good one.</p><p>“Thanks, Mycroft,” he said quietly.</p><p>They sat quietly for a while longer, enough time for the tears to dry completely on Greg’s cheeks. He felt drained but calmer. Whatever happened, he wouldn’t be too proud to take Mycroft’s help. Paula could go jump, as far as he was concerned, and Greg could start figuring out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.</p><p>“Jesus,” he muttered. When he felt Mycroft turn to him, he added, “What the hell am I going to do with the rest of my life?”</p><p>“The same as anyone,” Mycroft replied. “You will move forward, carrying the weight of this experience with you.”</p><p>“That sounds appealing,” Greg murmured sarcastically.</p><p>“Appealing or not, you will be different,” Mycroft said quietly. “Trauma is a catalyst for change, whether we want it to be or not.”</p><p>Greg nodded. “I guess so,” he said. He squeezed Mycroft’s hand again. “I hope this doesn’t change. Us talking, I mean.”</p><p>Something flickered through Mycroft’s expression, but he didn’t speak, merely nodding at Greg’s words.</p><p>Later, Greg wondered about that moment, but it was gone.</p><p>+++</p><p>“I’m not sure congratulations is the traditional toast in such a situation, however I do feel it is warranted,” Mycroft said, raising his glass to Greg.</p><p>“I’ll take it,” Greg replied. “And in response, thank you. Wouldn’t be here without your help.”</p><p>“Certainly not,” Mycroft said, looking around his private parlour. “You’re not a member.”</p><p>Greg grinned, raising his glass again before taking a mouthful of Scotch. He was enjoying this newer incarnation of Mycroft. He was still the same person, but a layer of protection had been discarded that night, and the dry humour was more present. Greg could read his expression more often now, though that was probably a measure of both how much time they were spending together and the change in Mycroft.</p><p>“Another, I think,” Greg said, grinning as Mycroft rose immediately to fetch the decanter. “It’s not every day you celebrate your divorce.”</p><p>“No, it is not,” Mycroft replied. “A satisfactory ending, I hope?”</p><p>Greg shrugged. It was hardly an easy question, but Mycroft was right. “Yeah,” he said. “She made her bed, in the end.”</p><p>“And a number of other people’s,” Mycroft said quietly. “That was her decision too, as I recall.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Greg said. “Christ, it really was a shit marriage, wasn’t it?”</p><p>The self-deprecating comment fell flat; he could feel the edge in his voice before it even registered in his ears. In the space between his words and Mycroft’s answer, Greg felt his old insecurities welling up again. He and Mycroft had talked about a lot in the last six months, but they’d only ever skirted around how Greg actually felt about himself.</p><p>“I do not believe you give yourself enough credit, Gregory,” Mycroft replied.</p><p>“For what?” Greg asked. “I mean, she started seeing someone else almost before the ink on our marriage certificate was dry.”</p><p>“As was evidenced, that was her choice, and had been so for many years before you and she were married,” Mycroft shot back. “With most of her previous long term partners, in fact.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Greg replied. “But I was her husband.”</p><p>“A distinction more important to you than her, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said. “It is not a reflection on your capabilities as a husband, partner or human being, in fact.”</p><p>Greg shrugged, neither willing to argue nor entirely believing Mycroft. Not deep down, where he hid the truths he was ashamed to admit still lived in a grown man with a respectable profession. Meeting Mycroft’s eyes would be difficult, but there was nothing more telling than someone who wouldn’t meet your eyes in a difficult conversation. Knowing it might give him away anyway, Greg steeled himself to return Mycroft’s gaze.</p><p>Calm and self-assured grey was waiting for Greg. He knew Mycroft would probably be able to read him, but that wasn’t so much of a concern now. Not with so many of his secrets laid out and treated carefully in the last few months. Part of him still fought against letting this one out, though. It was such a fundamental part of him, yet hidden, and Greg knew if this was out between them, brought into the light and examined, things would never be the same.</p><p>Mycroft didn’t speak, and Greg found himself holding his breath. He wasn’t going to break this silence. Any assumptions he was making about what Mycroft did or did not see in him would only be confirmed if he spoke first, so he allowed the quiet to grow around them. He was studying Mycroft, trying to see what he might be thinking as they sipped at their Scotch. His expression grew more speculative as their glasses slowly emptied, and when Mycroft’s landed on the side table, Greg wondered what he would do.</p><p>The reaction was nothing like he expected.</p><p>Pulling out his phone, Mycroft set some kind of music playing. It was mood music, evoking the last hour before a speakeasy closed for the night, slow and dreamy with an edge of brass lamenting the end. Laying his phone on the side table he stood, walked the three steps across the room and stood before Greg. Tilting his head back to keep watching Mycroft’s face was uncomfortable, and Greg initially didn’t see Mycroft’s hand extended until Mycroft dropped his own gaze.</p><p>His fingers were outstretched, shaking slightly but definitely asking.</p><p>Greg threw back the last of his Scotch – it was definitely too expensive to be doing that – and reached up, settling his fingers in Mycroft’s. He had no idea what was going on but it looked like Mycroft was asking him to…dance?</p><p>Long fingers closed around him and pulled him to his feet. Mycroft stepped back, his eyes locked on Greg’s as they moved into the space between their armchairs. Greg allowed himself to be guided, trusting whatever Mycroft was doing. He tried to ignore the thrill in his belly when Mycroft’s grip changed, when his body came closer and his hand slid around Greg’s waist, their faces moving past each other until he was looking over Mycroft’s shoulder as they began to move together.</p><p>
  <em>Oh my God, we are dancing.</em>
</p><p>They barely swayed to begin, a shifting of weight in time with a smooth high-hat rhythm. As Greg’s free hand trailed up Mycroft’s arm to settle on his shoulder he felt Mycroft’s grip more firmly around him, their movement becoming more definite. Mycroft’s body relaxed, the tension in his shoulder easing as he realised Greg was yielding. When Greg shifted his position again, edging his feet closer and feeling his hand slip further around Mycroft’s neck, he felt the last of the tension melt away.</p><p>“I don’t remember the last time I danced,” Greg murmured. He needed to know what this meant to Mycroft. Was he comforting Greg? Wanting the connection for himself? Offering something more than the deeper friendship that had developed recently?</p><p>“Nor I,” Mycroft replied quietly. He was silent for a while, and it wasn’t until they’d rotated enough for Greg to be facing his own chair again that he spoke. “I hope you don’t mind.”</p><p>“No,” Greg replied. “It’s…” he paused, wanting to find the right word. “Lovely.”</p><p>It was a strange choice of word, not something he would generally say, but it was the most accurate description of what was going on right now. Mycroft’s cologne was filling his nose, the feel of his jacket and the musculature beneath surprisingly comforting. Greg had forgotten about the space between when you were dancing like this. It grew warm and somehow intimate, as though all the particles that made up that bit of air knew both of you, and the combination of you as well. It was oddly validating, too, that Mycroft would want to be so close, especially given his care to maintain his personal space.</p><p>
  <em>He chose me.</em>
</p><p>“I fear you didn’t believe me earlier,” Mycroft said. “When I spoke of your capabilities.”</p><p>Greg didn’t respond. He wasn’t entirely sure where Mycroft was going with this, but instinct told him this conversation was the point of the dancing. Whatever he wanted to say, Mycroft wanted to say it like this. There was no way that realisation wasn’t going to birth some kind of hope, no matter how distant, and Greg breathed carefully, hoping his elevated heart rate wouldn’t give him away.</p><p>“Her poor choices were a reflection of her own inability to see the value of what was right in front of her,” Mycroft said. “You are an exceptional human, Gregory.”</p><p>Greg swallowed. “Doesn’t feel like it,” he whispered. The words were almost a secret; only here, like this, would he share them.</p><p>
  <em>That’s why we’re dancing. Not so he can say something, but so you will.</em>
</p><p>“If you recall the evening after you received the papers,” Mycroft said, “I said trauma is a catalyst for change.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Greg replied.</p><p>“I implore you,” Mycroft said, his voice tightening, “do not allow this to catalyse your destruction.”</p><p>Greg blinked.</p><p>
  <em>Maybe we both need this to say some stuff.</em>
</p><p>“I don’t…” he took a breath, leaning his forehead on Mycroft’s shoulder, wanting even more contact, despite their embrace. “I don’t know how to believe you.”</p><p>Almost before the words were out, Greg was shifting, wanting more of the embrace and less of the dancing. Mycroft must have come to the same conclusion because they moved at the same time, shifting seamlessly into the kind of swaying Greg dimly remembered from his past – their joined hands nestled into the spot their chests met, one of his arms looped around Mycroft’s neck, the firm band of pressure around his waist reassuring him that Mycroft pulled him close. Greg felt his five o’clock shadow rasp against Mycroft’s lapel. He closed his eyes, hoping to store this memory away with as much detail as he could muster. With every action Mycroft made his intention clearer, but Greg couldn’t help the edge of disbelief that clung tight, not quite allowing him to accept that perhaps, after everything that had happened…</p><p>“Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe.”</p><p>It sounded like the kind of thing someone would quote, but Greg didn’t recognise it. The phrasing wasn’t quite Mycroft; he didn’t talk about faith, and Greg was surprised he even knew a quote about faith, if he was honest. As he turned the words over in his mind, the meaning made itself clearer. Mycroft had read him better than he expected; it was the only explanation that made sense. And if anyone asked, Greg would say Mycroft was exceptional at reading people, both their words and their general personality. So why wouldn’t he accept Mycroft’s words this time?</p><p>
  <em>They go against a much deeper belief.</em>
</p><p>Greg’s brain threw up countless memories, moments of weakness, poor judgement, errors he’d made that supported the idea he held of himself. It always did; John had explained it once, when Greg wondered aloud why it took so much effort to convince people to change their opinion of themselves.</p><p>“It’s called cognitive dissonance,” John told him. The phrase had stuck with him, even if the explanation was a little cloudy.</p><p>“Cognitive dissonance,” Greg murmured.</p><p>“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “I might also suggest confirmation bias.”</p><p>“I don’t know that one,” Greg said. It was vaguely familiar, but the details escaped him.</p><p>“The tendency to put more value on facts that validate a belief and ignore those that might refute it,” Mycroft said. “Regardless of the truth.”</p><p>The words were felt as well as heard, Greg’s ear vibrating along with Mycroft’s chest. He felt safe here; able to voice things he might not otherwise find words to say.</p><p>“There are a lot of facts,” Greg whispered. He couldn’t put more words out there; those already felt fragile, and he trusted Mycroft to interpret what he’d said.</p><p>
  <em>A lot of facts that validate this belief.</em>
</p><p>“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed. Something changed, and it took Greg a minute to realise they were no longer dancing. The thinly veiled excuse was gone, and only the embrace remained. “I might suggest an examination of your facts would be in order. However another option does occur to me.” Greg felt Mycroft’s chest rise and fall, shaking on the exhalation before he drew breath again.</p><p>Greg expected to hear the second option, but instead Mycroft eased back just far enough to look at Greg. As soon as he’d realised what Mycroft was doing Greg opened his eyes, and he wondered if he looked at startled as he felt to see Mycroft’s expression. His eyes were familiar; the apprehension was not. Greg felt himself still. This was a moment. A <em>moment</em>. His heart was thumping as he waited, but this time Greg couldn’t hold onto the silence.</p><p>“Mycroft?” Greg whispered.</p><p>“If you would allow me to add my own observations, perhaps they might help change your mind,” Mycroft said quietly.</p><p>Greg blinked. “Perhaps,” he allowed. He felt the discomfort again, rolling his shoulder to alleviate it somewhat.</p><p>“Your brain perceives cognitive dissonance as a threat,” Mycroft said. “I don’t wish you to feel threatened.”</p><p>Greg nodded. The lump in his throat wouldn’t allow speech; Mycroft was breathtakingly close to the most sensitive core of this belief. There was no more space to hide, but more frightening than that, Greg wasn’t sure he should. Or needed to. Or wanted to. Not from Mycroft.</p><p>“I don’t feel threatened by you,” Greg said. “But the rest…”</p><p>Mycroft swallowed. “I can be your safe place,” he whispered. “Let me show you how extraordinary you are.”</p><p>“To you,” Greg said.</p><p>“Yes,” Mycroft replied simply. “To me you are perfect, and my wasted heart will love you forever.”</p><p>Greg felt his mouth drop open. His brain was frozen, but working overtime. Mycroft had just uttered the most remarkable words, yet they were familiar.</p><p>“You just quoted a movie at me,” he said suddenly. “<em>Love Actually.”</em></p><p>Mycroft winced. “I did,” he admitted. “They are not my words, but they are no less true for it.”</p><p>It pulled Greg out of the intense moment, and he felt lighter. His frozen self was gone, and the next step was clear.</p><p>A smile, small but genuine, and as soon as Mycroft began to return it, Greg pushed up on his toes and kissed him. It was a brush of lips but Mycroft chased it, leaning down to seal the kiss.</p><p>
  <em>Woah.</em>
</p><p>Greg exhaled, clenching his fingers into Mycroft’s, needing to ground himself in the physical. The pressure was reciprocated, their fingers tangling hard between their bodies. Greg held in the whimper as Mycroft eased back. He wanted to follow Mycroft but didn’t, instead standing with his eyes closed, savouring the tingle still on his lips. Whatever happened next he wanted to keep this second, this very moment inside him.</p><p>“You said you want to add your own observations,” Greg said, when Mycroft’s gaze and his met again.</p><p>“I did,” Mycroft whispered. “I do.”</p><p>“There’s a lot already there,” Greg said, the words still difficult to shape. “A lot to cancel out. A lifetime’s worth.”</p><p>“It will only be fair for me to have an equal period of time in which to change your mind,” Mycroft said.</p><p>Greg’s heart heaved at the implication. “Okay,” he whispered.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>"Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe." - Voltaire</p></blockquote></div></div>
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